


Feet Don't Fail Me, Love Be Kind

by enigma731



Series: The 12 Days of Chris Muss [6]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dancing, Established Relationship, F/M, Post-Infinity War, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 03:03:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12974445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: Peter just about dies when he sees her in the dress.Which, okay -- To be completely fair, Gamora regularly takes his breath away and makes his heart skip beats. Like probably there ought to be some kind of medical condition named after the things she does to him, and the fact that she neverfailsto do those things to him with her mere presence, even after four whole years of spending nearly all their time together.





	Feet Don't Fail Me, Love Be Kind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [philthestone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/gifts).



> Written for 12 Days of Starmora and heavily inspired by Discussions(TM) with [philthestone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone).

Peter just about dies when he sees her in the dress.

Which, okay -- To be completely fair, Gamora regularly takes his breath away and makes his heart skip beats. Like probably there ought to be some kind of medical condition named after the things she does to him, and the fact that she never _fails_ to do those things to him with her mere presence, even after four whole years of spending nearly all their time together.

So it’s not like it’s really surprising to feel his mouth drop open when she emerges from the bathroom, but this -- This is a whole other level of overwhelmed by how stunning she is, by how much he loves her.

In the month since they finally, _finally_ helped rid the galaxy of Thanos’s reign of terror, she’s seemed softer, somehow. Smaller, almost. Though it only took a few days for her injuries to heal, she’s all but traded in her leathers for oversized, knit sweaters, for the shirts she’s stolen from his side of the dresser, the ones she normally keeps reserved for bed. She’s been quieter, too, though not _entirely_ withdrawn. Almost like she’s been in hibernation, of a sort -- like a flower under the snow, or a butterfly in a cocoon, or some other sappy shit that makes Peter shake his head at himself.

He’s spent the better part of the past few weeks -- okay, no, past few months, because it definitely started long before the end -- concerned about her, looking for a way to fix things, a solution he knows doesn’t exist.

“We don’t have to go,” he’d offered, before she’d gotten in the shower tonight. “We could say that we have to um--stay with Groot? Or something. Anyway, we don’t have to go.”

The idea of a party, an actual celebration of the victory that still feels so bittersweet, automatically worries him for her, makes him feel protective in a way that he absolutely knows she doesn’t need. And then there’s the whole concept of an actual, proper social event on Earth, albeit one thrown and attended by plenty of other extraordinary individuals.

But she’d shaken her head, rested a hand on his wrist, and told him with the quiet determination that he loves so much that they absolutely _would_ be attending this celebration, no second thoughts about it.  
And now here she is, perfectly made up, hair cascading down her back in loose curls.

The dress is a floor-length gown that fits her body like a glove, like the most perfect sheath for the smooth, beautiful curve of a particularly deadly sword. The material is a silky green that matches her skin tone so well that at first he thinks it’s completely sheer, and it’s covered in gold beading so delicate that the whole thing appears to be shimmering in the low light of their quarters.

“ _Holy_ \--” breathes Peter, then slaps an actual hand over his mouth, because she’s way, way too gorgeous to deserve him cursing at her right now, in disbelief or otherwise. What she _does_ deserve is something far more coherent than he’s capable of producing, though, so instead he just keeps staring at her like the idiot he is. She looks like an honest-to-god fairytale princess.

Gamora inclines her head, giving him a small smile and rests one hand on her hip, which somehow makes her look even _more_ stunning. “You think it will suffice, then?”

Peter looks down at his own outfit, his first attempt at a proper suit since he graduated kindergarten and wore one his mother had sewn herself from fabric-store remnants. Then he looks back up at her and decides to hell with pretending to have manners that he doesn’t. “Hell yes.”

* * *

Stark Tower reminds Peter of absolutely everything that’s changed about Earth since he left it.

Then again, he has the sense that even if he’d seen it--or its equivalent-- in the 80s, he would have felt out of place here. It’s the sort of affluent, high-tech, high-society place he thinks his mother would have loved in fiction and hated in reality. 

The fact that the party is on the roof is simultaneously better and worse, because the concurrent view of the night sky above and the ant-farm-sized city below makes it feel like they might actually still be in space, or at least on some entirely different planet from the one where they got on the elevator in the lobby at the start of the evening.

Most of the party so far has been pretty boring, a lot of people eating completely unsatisfying hors d'oeuvres and making overly polite small talk with the members of the press and government officials who have come to give lip service to the team that’s saved the planet -- or most of it, at least. The Avengers were far more interesting as comrades in battle, Peter’s decided, although that’s true of just about everyone he’s ever met. 

He’s found his way over to a table, is eating shrimp off a skewer and watching Gamora sip disinterestedly at a glass of wine that will have absolutely no effect on her, when the band starts playing. It’s neither pop nor rock, isn’t any of the songs he remembers from his Walkman, or even from his Zune. Instead it’s quiet -- jazz, he thinks, the sound and the terminology coming back to him as the smooth purr of a saxophone stirs something in his chest. A hush falls over the rooftop crowd for a moment, a few breaths of disparate people feeling something immutable in harmony, and Peter can’t help thinking this is what he loves absolutely _best_ about music.

A few bars in, people seem to remember that they’re at a party, not a concert. The conversation resumes for some groups, though more quietly. Others, though, get to their feet, converge on the area in front of the band, and begin to dance. 

Tearing his eyes away from them, Peter turns back to Gamora, surprised to find her watching _him_. There’s an intensity in her gaze that he can’t quite read, feels his concern for her rising again. She absolutely doesn’t need his protection, and yet he perpetually wants, more than anything, to give it to her. Even now. _Especially_ now.

“You all right?” he asks, studying her.

She dips her head in one of her precise little nods, then looks up at him through her lashes. “Yes. Do you want to join them?”

“Who?” asks Peter, now more focused on her than anything going on around them.

She rolls her eyes, though it’s affectionate. “Do you want to dance with me, Peter?”

“Oh.” He takes a breath, heart suddenly in his throat, something in her voice, in the way she’s looking at him. There goes his composure again. It isn’t the first time she’s asked him this particular question, but it is the first in public, on _Earth_ , at a party in their goddamn honor. “Hell yeah, I do.”

He stands so quickly that his chair scrapes loudly against the floor, but he ignores it, leaning over gallantly to offer Gamora his arm. She smiles as she takes it, allowing him to help her up and lead her over to the dance floor. 

The song is slow and sweet, her hands the same as they come to rest on his shoulders. They’re capable of far flashier choreography when warranted, but tonight Peter wants to keep her close, an arm around her waist as they sway to the sax’s soft croon. Her dress shimmers in the low light, and he thinks for a moment that she looks as though she’s made of starlight.

Then he decides that’s sappy as hell.

“I know you are worried about me,” says Gamora, as though sensing the break in his thoughts. She keeps her voice low enough that only he’ll be able to hear it. 

“Yeah,” he allows, not about to argue with her on this one. “I mean, the last few weeks have been--”

“Nice,” she interrupts.

Peter blinks. “Nice?”

She nods again. “Yes, nice.I mean--not entirely happy, I’ll grant that. Thanos always left a trail of tragedy. This has been no different.”

“But--’nice’?” he repeats, wondering where she’s going with this.

“Yes,” she says firmly. “There is mourning to be done, but also--closure. And end to this particular suffering.”

“I see that,” he agrees, though he’s surprised to hear her acknowledging the good things so easily. He has to admit, he’s used to Gamora being driven by regret, by the need for redemption. “You’ve just been so--quiet, I guess?”

“Because I can afford to be,” says Gamora. Letting go of his shoulder for a moment, she allows him to spin her, then bring her back in. “Because, for once, I don’t need to fight.”

Peter runs a hand down her back, taking this in. “So--If you aren’t fighting anymore, what _are_ you?” He hopes he hasn’t just sent her into some kind of existential crisis.

Instead she just smiles, almost shyly. “Free, I think.”

“Huh,” says Peter, and for a moment that’s the only word he can think of. But it fits, he realizes, the pieces coming together as they continue moving together in the balmy night breeze. He’s been encouraging Gamora to allow herself this sort of healing. He’s been hoping for her to get here for _years_. Remembering, suddenly, where they all started, he grins slowly.

“What?” she asks, watching him.

“What do you wanna do next?” he asks, parroting himself from years ago. “Something good? Something bad?”

“A bit of everything,” says Gamora, before he can finish. And then she kisses him into silence.


End file.
